


You Don't Know How Lovely you Are

by sona007



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/F, M/M, Multi, Rating: M, Sex, Vaginal Sex, m/m - Freeform, mystrade, mystrade drabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sona007/pseuds/sona007
Summary: This is a collection of random Mystrade drabbles and ficlets. They're not all related to one another, so start anywhere you'd like. For more Mystrade stuff, find me on Tumblr where I masquerade as iwritemystrade.





	1. Happy birthday, Mycroft Holmes!

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft Holmes has the misfortune to be born on Christmas Eve. This year, he's planned to spend his forty-third birthday sharing a drink with a certain silver-haired DI, but Sherlock interferes. As always. ;)

It was Christmas Eve.  Unfortunately for Mycroft, it was also his birthday. He got into the car and sighed. He had people to meet, reports to scan and security footage to review. But, as usual, Sherlock's latest tantrum meant that Mycroft’s plans for the evening had gone awry. There was one meeting in particular that he’d been looking forward to. Gritting his teeth, he typed a message to Anthea.

  **Call DI Lestrade and inform him that our meeting must be postponed. Please express my regrets. -MH**

 He dismissed the pang of disappointment in his chest and put his head in his hands. When it came to threats, Sherlock rarely made idle ones. Mycroft could almost see the festooned hallways of the Diogenes Club and the horrified faces of his fellow patrons at the debauchery that would undoubtedly ensue. He read Sherlock’s text again, cursing under his breath.

  **I’m throwing a birthday party for you at my flat. If you’re not here by 7.00 pm, the party will come to the Diogenes. Happy 43 rd birthday, Mycroft.**

**P.S: Don’t eat all the cake.**

 Surely there was more to this than mere spite. The moment he read the text, Mycroft had sworn aloud, thrown his papers on his desk and hurried to his car, nearly colliding with Anthea in his haste. They'd never celebrated birthdays in the Holmes household. Why would they? Whose achievement was being celebrated? They came into the world with no effort on their part. Why were there gifts involved? Did humanity really need more validation for doing the absolute bare minimum?

 The only three gifts he'd given Sherlock were his violin, microscope and vintage pocket knife. They weren’t mere possessions, they were part of his personality. Sherlock had never given him any gifts, at least not ones Mycroft wanted. Once, after a particularly nasty Christmas at the family home, his brother mailed him a year's subscription to Weight Watchers. The mere memory of the membership card (complete with his photo and mobile number, and adorned with a blasted red bow-tie) still made Mycroft want to curse and break even more pricey china _._  

 He massaged his temples. The last two years had been particularly difficult for the Holmes family. Yet, despite Sherlock ‘dying’ and returning, this insistence on company during Christmas, nay,  _his_   _birthday_ , was disturbing. Their parents had already left for a month-long trip to Asia, having decided to forego the annual Christmas dinner at the cottage. Despite the security arrangements the trip had entailed, Mycroft was more than happy to have this most dreaded day of the year to himself. Along with clearing off his desk, he was particularly looking forward to a holiday drink with his favorite DI. But now? Now he was to spend it at 221B, surrounded by John and Sherlock’s sullen, sympathetic faces as he blew out forty-three candles atop a cake Mrs. Hudson had grudgingly baked. 

 This latest demand was both unwonted and yet strangely in keeping with his brother's behavior since he'd 'returned from the dead'. Maybe his parents were right. Maybe spending two years chasing terrorists in rural Europe  _had_  made Sherlock crave friendly company. The thought sent a shudder through Mycroft. "Oh, dear God", he whispered. Logistical and financial support he could provide, but this.. this involved  _emotions_. His mouth twisted with distaste.  _Not my area of expertise. He has John for that now. Or even Gregory_. He unclenched his fingers from the leather seat and picked up his phone as it chimed. It was a text from Anthea.

  **Couldn’t get in touch with DI Lestrade. He wasn't at his home or his office. Will scout through recent security footage to determine location. -AC**

 Mycroft's mouth fell open.  _Gregory was missing? Was he hurt? Kidnapped? Where was he?_  But before he could type a response, the Blackberry chimed again.

  **DI Lestrade was last seen with Mr. Holmes at the Landover robbery crime scene. -AC**

  **Three hours ago. -AC**

  **His PC found his phone, wallet and keys in his desk drawer. -AC**

 Mycroft snarled.  _What the hell was Sherlock thinking? What had he done with Gregory?_  He punched the keys on the Blackberry until he reached the list of recent calls. His thumb hovered over the call button as the possibilities raced through his mind.  _Sherlock kidnapped Gregory. To what end? Why tonight, on Mycroft’s birthday? Especially when it was also the first anniversary of Gregory's divorce. And Christmas Eve._  

  ** _Oh_** _._

A weak laugh escaped him as realization dawned. Sherlock had long deduced his unrequited, unarticulated crush on Gregory. The furious tantrums and drug-laced fortnight that had followed said deduction convinced Mycroft that it was in his best interest to stay away from his brother’s new friend. Despite his feelings, despite the pain it caused him, Mycroft brushed off Gregory’s attempts to flirt with him with cold indifference. And now, abruptly, Sherlock had changed his mind. Mycroft shuffled through his phone to his conversation with Anthea and typed with a frown.

  **What were Sherlock’s most recent purchases on the credit card I gave him? -MH**

It took her twenty-five seconds to reply.

  **Two meters of silk fabric, a two-kilo cake named ‘Death by Chocolate’, a can of whipped cream, and some accessories.**

Mycroft frowned.

  **Accessories? -MH**

  **Toys, condoms and lubricant. Sir. -AC**

 His eyebrows shot up. This had gone too far. He tolerated the fat-shaming, the constant jealousy and pettiness. But this time, this time Sherlock had gone too far. He’d obliterated his chances with the one person Mycroft had ever been interested in. He cringed as he thought of Gregory tied to the headboard in the guest bedroom at 221B, cursing the day he met the Holmes brothers. “Bloody hell!”, Mycroft cursed aloud as he shot off a text to Anthea.

  **Call off the search. I know exactly where he is. -MH**

 He yanked the door open as soon as the car lurched to a stop and strode into 221 Baker Street, his hands clenching into fists. It was dark inside; even Mrs. Hudson's flat was empty. Mycroft didn't want to know what Sherlock and John had done to get her out of the flat. He climbed up the stairs in the darkness, groping at the balustrade as he pulled himself up with haste. The floor creaked under him as he made his way towards the soft noises in the guest bedroom.

 The door was ajar. A soft glow lit the room, emanating from the string lights draped around the headboard. Red silk sheets adorned the bed, white rose petals trailing up to a beaming Gregory Lestrade lying on his side. Mycroft stopped in his tracks. Gregory was...  _naked_. A red cord with blue wildflowers draped his mouth loosely and an enormous red bow held his arms together in front of him. His silver hair gleamed on his chest and stomach and on his muscular legs. His tanned skin looked delectable; it spurred Mycroft’s heartbeat into a stampede, rendering him incapable of rational thought. He was crafted to represent perfect symmetry. Mycroft nearly gasped as his eyes traveled over the curve of that spectacular arse and the candy cane strapped strategically to preserve his dignity.

 “Gregory”, he growled. Mycroft blinked hard, trying to refocus his gaze. The room was suddenly rather hot. He tugged his tie and shuffled his feet, for his trousers were now oppressively tight. He'd  fantasized about Gregory for eons. In his dreams, Mycroft  made Gregory beg and cry for  _more, more, please_ as he fucked him into the mattress. Gregory would finish with a shout, coating them both in rivulets of come as he repeated Mycroft’s name, over and over and pleasure wrecked his beautiful features.

 “Oh, dear God.” Mycroft backed away. “Gregory, forgive me.” he said in a croaky voice. He ran trembling fingers through his hair and shut his eyes. “I apologize for what Sherlock put you through. I promise you, this was not my idea”.

 After a moment of silence, Mycroft opened his eyes to find Greg frowning at him, confused. The DI maneuvered his way out of the gag and spoke. “Mycroft, Sherlock didn’t put me through anything.” His voice was gentle, though the barely restrained laughter was obvious.

 “What do you mean?”. Mycroft clutched the door frame for support. His ears were still ringing, his trousers becoming more uncomfortable by the minute.

 “Hey.” Gregory said, his voice tinged with softness. “Mycroft, look at me.”

 Mycroft obeyed.

 “This was  _my_  idea. You should have seen Sherlock’s face when I asked him to set this up.” Greg grinned at the memory.

 “You... your idea? How?” Mycroft's head reeled.

 “He let slip that you'd been nursing a crush on me for quite some time”.

 “He WHAT?!”

 “Mycroft, it’s okay, he only told me! And John. And Mrs. Hudson knows, somehow”.

 “Brilliant! That’s exactly what I need.”

 “Mycroft, there’s a happy ending to this.”

 “Is there?”

 “Yes.” Gregory said in a firm voice. “ _Me._ ” His eyes glittered as he looked up and down Mycroft’s suit-clad figure, his pupils growing darker by the second. “I’ve fancied you for ages, Mycroft. For some horrid reason, you’ve been hiding yourself away from me. But not anymore. It’s your birthday, the residents of this flat are on holiday in Egypt, and I have a raging boner hiding behind this candy cane. One would think you wouldn’t need any more reasons to fuck me, but I could go on.” His front teeth snapped at the red cord gently as his tongue beckoned it back into his mouth. Mycroft watched with wide eyes as Gregory waggled his eyebrows at him.

 “I’ve got supplies, too. Sherlock said something about a long-overdue birthday gift. I reckon he meant the cake,” Gregory jerked his head towards the window, under which a coffee table held the cake and the other items Sherlock so kindly purchased. “Well?”

 “Well.” Mycroft said as every fiber of his being lit up, incandescent with joy.  _Bless you, brother mine_ , he thought, loosening his tie. “Happy fucking birthday to me.” He beamed, clicked the door shut and walked to the glorious man waiting for him.

 “And a Merry Christmas to all.”


	2. Scars and all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny is shot in the line of duty. Mycroft is furious.

Mycroft walked towards the sound of her giggles, his brow smooth and his mouth flat. Poise was not one of the many stellar qualities DI Lestrade possessed. For the six months they’d been ‘seeing more’ of each other, she’d managed to acquire a new set of bruises and scars every week. Most of them were from altercations from the criminals she encountered. The remaining (yet surprising) amount were from ‘misunderstandings’ with everyday objects. A door, a bottle of jam, or a pair of shelves for example. Mycroft would pry her away from her inanimate victims and attend to her latest injury. But as much as he tried, he could not dismiss the undercurrent of panic running through him whenever she was out in the field. Bruises he could ice, cuts he could stitch, but there was a limit to his powers. Still, he’d refrained from openly criticizing her klutzy demeanor or her tendency to use her fists before using her words.  _Until now._

He held his handkerchief to his nose to block the sharp infusion of phenol and disinfectants seeping up from the ward floor. How typical of the Metropolitan police, putting officers who risk their lives for their country out in the common ward like cattle. She should be in a private room, not here exposed to a million diseases and infections. He would need to have a talk with the Home Secretary about the outrageous cuts proposed in the Met’s budget.  _Idiots, all of them. Speaking of idiots.._

“Mr. Holmes”, said DS Dickerson as he got up from his seat from her bedside. Mycroft ignored him and turned to her instead. His nostrils flared as he concentrated on slowing his breathing. She was sitting up against a stack of pillows, her left arm in a sling, a swathe of gauze wrapped around the upper arm where the bullet had missed her brachial artery by a mere 2 inches. Her checked shirt hung open, splatters of blood on the plain white vest inside indicating a close-range shot, _20 feet at the most_ , while she’d been running.  _Towards the shooter. Of all the things she could possibly do.._  

He gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly, his fingers stretching and curling back into fists. The longer he looked at her, the more the aching knot in his chest loosened. The chaotic quaking inside of him receded somewhat when he spied her face. There was an impish glint in her eyes, her eyebrows rising as she looked away, trying not to smile. The other police officers crowded around her bed stood up in attention. Mycroft suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The automatic response to perceived authority was ingrained in the folds of their brain so deeply they didn’t even give it a second thought.

“Superintendent”, said Mycroft, eager to shove the man into a corner and make him weep for his ill-advised, hotch-potch style of management that had gotten  ~~them~~   ~~him~~  her here in this wretched situation. Instead, he looked away from the man and back at the object of his attention, who had begun bidding goodbye to her visitors. “Take care, Ginny”, “Well done, Ginny”, “Get some rest”, “See you back in two weeks”, they said as they left. “Good luck”, Sally muttered and shot him a wary look as she took her leave after all of them had gone.

Mycroft waited until they were out of earshot. His veil of courtesy (her term, not his) melted off his face like hot wax would when faced with an open incendiary flame. To his surprise, she was biting the inside of her cheek as she tried to stop the grin that threatened to break out. At last, she gave up. She guffawed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

Mycroft frowned at her, perplexed. “Why”, he said in a low, biting voice, “are you chortling with laughter? Have you injured your head as well as your arm?”, he asked as he sat in the plastic chair next to her. He clutched her chin in his fingers so he could check for any injuries the doctors might have missed.

“No, no”, she said and pried his fingers away. “It’s just..”, she said and smiled. “I’ve had a happy realization”.

“Have you?”, he asked. “Is it that you’re a mortal and not Wonder Woman? Or that you’ve been shot in the arm? While you were trying to tackle the shooter? Do elaborate, Detective Inspector”, he said. His voice echoed in their hushed surroundings. A few people turned to look at them curiously.  _Blast it_ , he thought as he glared at her.  _Blast it all to hell. This is why I never indulged in these fallacies._

“What, this? It’s just a flesh wound”, she said in an uncanny impression of the Black Knight. Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  _Of course. Humour._

“Genevieve Lestrade, if you think you can deflect my argument with references to Monty Python, you are mistaken”, he growled.

“I’m not trying to deflect anything”, she said, holding his left hand with her good one, a quick reassuring squeeze applied before she threaded their fingers together. Mycroft blinked as the warm glow spread through him. His shoulders softened and he let out the breath he’d been holding. Poets waxed about hammering hearts and hyperactive pulses when you met your significant other, but all he could espy at the moment was balmy, pleasant serenity.

He shifted on the chair to turn fully towards her. “I am  _livid_ , Ginny”, he said and shut his eyes.  _Sentiment is a dangerous thing, brother. Reel yourself in before you vanish forever into that abyss_ , he heard his own voice from a million miles away.  _Here be dragons_.

“I know”, she said and picked up his hand. She pressed her lips to his open palm. “I’m sorry”.

“That’s not enough”.

“I know”.

“Promise me-“.

“I promise I’ll be more careful”.

“You better be”, he muttered as she grinned again.

He could commit murder in return for the beaming smile that adorned her face.  _A hundred unlawful endeavors for the price of one glittering grin from Genevieve Lestrade._

“What was your grand realization, then?”, he asked as he sat straight again. His tongue darted to lick his lips before settling between his teeth, hidden behind his left cheek as he waited for her answer.

“That I love you”, she said, her voice firm, lilting at the end as if to imply how obvious it should be. Surely, he wasn’t that oblivious. Surely-

_Wait, what?_

“What?”, he asked in a shaky voice, his face blank, his eyes scanning her posture. The firm stance of her shoulders was visible through her open shirt, the periodic rise and fall of her stomach miraculously unperturbed. Her hand clenched around his own, unwavering.

“You heard me”, she said. “I wanted to say it before but I just couldn’t find a proper way to do it. Then this happened and the only thing I could think of when they were mending me was ‘If you die right now, you’ll have never told him”. So here I am now, telling you. And I could tell you later too, if you’d like to hear it”. The dimple in her right cheek deepened.

Mycroft stared at their hands, as her grip loosened and she stroked the back of his palm with her thumb. His lungs kicked in and he breathed in more of the antiseptic-laden air. “Hey, it’s alright”, she said, frowning. “If you don’t feel the same-”.

“Blind”, he said, his tone abrupt.

Ginny frowned. “What?”, she asked, confused.

“You’re blind. It is not ‘alright’, it is _not_. It is-”, he paused mid-snarl as the words he meant to say vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but vacant space behind. He had nothing to draw from at this moment. He was perched on a cliff high above the dark, gloomy clouds, unable to see anything beyond. The mere imagination of gravity causing his insides to rumble and press up into his throat. His brain could conjure neither the height of the cliff nor the texture of the ground. It couldn’t even compute the force of the wind that would affect his fall. Now, when he was already crouched low with coiled springs for limbs, all he could do was screech ‘blind’?  _Was this what sentiment did to you? Incapacitated your brain until all your actions were based on a moral compass telling you how to feel?_

“You’re blind!”, he shouted again, the words tumbling out of him on their own as he twisted his hands in the thin ragged hospital bed sheets.

Ginny was staring at him wide-eyed, worry creasing her. “Oh no, I broke you”, she said and put her palm on his cheek instead, her touch light and cautious.

“Hey, Mycroft, look at me. It’s alright”, she said. “I’m sorry I said that, okay? You don’t have to think of that right now. Just breathe, please”.

“You can’t just say such a thing”, he said and shut his eyes. In his mind’s eye, a gust of wind caught him beneath his wings as he crouched up from his position on the cliff-edge. He jumped, his peals of delighted laughter ringing in his ears as he shot forwards and upwards. He wasn’t hurtling to the ground, he was  _soaring_.

Ginny let out a squeak of surprise as he met her mouth. He bruised her mouth with his, propelling them so the back of her head hit the headboard. He worried her lower lip between his teeth until she relented and her tongue flicked out, demure in invitation. Mycroft tasted coffee and mint on her tongue, his hands tethered in her hair as he held in her place. He kissed her like she was a drink of cool water and he’d just found his way out of an arid, sweltering, unending desert. Ginny shook, a moan escaping her as she clutched at the hair at the nape of his neck. They’d only kissed like this after one of them had been away for long.  _Too long_. Mycroft delved deeper into her mouth, their tongues fighting for dominance until she gave up, whimpered and hung on to him. When at last they both broke for air, Mycroft leaned his forehead against hers, unwilling to let go. He didn’t care that they were making out in the middle of a ward, with at least ten pairs of eyes upon them.  _Blast them all to hell._

“I love you” he said, amazed. A soft laugh spilled out of him as he whispered the words against her mouth. For all his omniscient intelligence, he was unaware of the workings of his own heart. _You learn something new every day._ “I love you”, he repeated.

Ginny chuckled. “I know, you dolt. I have for a while”, she said and pulled him closer. “At last!”.

 


	3. You're the talk of the town, you know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A posh 'Ministry of Transportation' official meets a scruffy football coach in a country bar.

The stranger looks across the room; our eyes meeting as he grins like he knows exactly why my knuckles are bruised, before his left eye flutters in a wink so salacious that my teacup rattles on the saucer in my hand. My startled smile makes his grin morph into a deep, rumbling laugh and he gets off his seat to walk towards me. Half of my brain wishes for the tapestry-covered wall behind me to swallow me whole. The other half wants to grab him by the lapels of his leather jacket and snog him till we’re both out of breath.

* * *

 I hold the saucer with both hands and place it on the eggshell wooden table, eager to shun hot liquids and delicate crockery in my current state.

A few heads turn as he lopes towards me in a graceful stride, full of purpose.  _Worn athletic sneakers, size 9,_   _patched up six times, laces replaced._   _The placement of the left foot suggests a ~~three~~  two year-old injury to the left hamstring. A five o’clock shadow looms on the sharp jaw bones and down the delicious, tanned neck, the telltale patterns in which the facial hair grows back signifying a cheap razor and a steady hand. The well-worn pair of denims and button down along with the ID peeking out of his right pocket -  **University graduate, home for the summer, working in a temporary job**. Grass stains on the shoes - spends a lot of time outdoors, running and standing.  ~~Mover~~.  ~~Security guard~~.  _ ~~Athlete~~. _ ~~Fitness model~~.. A trace of mud on his inner right calf, barely three hours old.  **Football coach.**_

By the time (3 seconds to be exact) I look up into his brown eyes, the man has not just come to a halt in front of me, but also somehow finagled his way into my personal space, the garnet zipper of his chestnut coloured leather jacket a few  _(14)_  inches away from my nose. If anyone else had dared to do the same, they would have found themselves reduced to tears in public with some accurate, pertinent facts about them. But I find no revulsion within me. The fog of lust clouding my brain, however, has made thinking harder. Despite the impediment to my abilities, it is effortless to determine that I would  _not_  lean back.

I could now tell you the brand of shower gel he uses and what cigarettes he smokes. As we lock gazes again, he bares his bright white teeth in a smile, his thumbs brushing back and forth across his hips as his hands remained stuck in the dark denim pockets. He is unaware of the subconscious signals he is sending, but I am left to deal with an upturned hornet’s nest in my stomach.

“You’re the talk of the town, you know”, he says as he drops into the chair perpendicular to mine, his knee brushing against my own, the abrupt convulsion of my leg contained only by his warm hand pressed against it. His gruff voice does strange things to my intestines and my brain struggles to comprehend what he could mean.

“I beg your pardon?”, I say, frowning at him, ignoring the circles he draws on my calf with his thumb.

He lets out a breathy exhale as his pupils dilate at the sound of my voice. I am tempted to let out the hysterical chuckle bubbling under my breath.

“You’re the reason Jim Wagner’s sporting that beautiful shiner”, he says, in a lilting Kent accent and tilts his head as my mouth falls open.  _How on earth?_  Not for the first time, I wish I was indeed omnipotent.

“Andover’s a small town”, he says and shrugs. “Heard talk of a tall ginger punching Jim’s lights out after a scuffle at the town square last night. Not many tall attractive redheads make it this far east, you know. Besides, you just looked so guilty when I saw your hand, I knew it had to be you”. His broad shoulders shake as he laughs, genuine amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“You have beautiful eyes”. The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.  _Why are you like this_ , I scream at myself silently in sixteen languages and cringe, waiting for the look of horror or instant regret, but it never appears. Instead, he looks me up and down with dark, thoughtful eyes. His chest rises and falls slowly as his eyelashes flutter. All my attempts to contain the violent shivers his lascivious scrutiny have sent me into are fruitless.

“Does it hurt?”, he asks as he slides his forefinger under my palm and picks it up, eyeing the black and blue knuckles and the telltale scratches on the inside of my wrist.  His skin is rough, the callused fingers and tender touch threatening to melt my composure like a cup of ice cream abandoned outdoors on a hot summer day. The tan on his forearm extends as far into his shirt sleeve as I can see. Of the stampede of unsettling, soaring sensations darting up my arm and pooling at the base of my spine, pain isn’t one.

“Yes”, I lie, the hiss emanating from a hidden nook of my esophagus, most likely.

His face gives new meaning to the phrase ‘the cat that got the cream’. It is the one thing that stands out most clearly in my memory of that night. Surely it deserves a place of honour in my mind palace. A whimper escapes me as he brings my hand closer to hide his mouth, his warm, soft lips pressing against my blackened skin.

“Do you”, I say, astounded at my own courage, “want to get out of here?”. My voice is breathy and loud, like how someone with temporary hearing damage would talk. For a moment he mirrors my own shock and I wonder what I have said wrong.  _Isn’t that what a person says when they proposition the other at a bar?_

“That’s my line”, he says, attempting a weak attempt at mock anger and failing as he smiles again. He leans in and presses a quick kiss right below my ear and flicks my earlobe with his tongue. “But God, yes”, I hear him groan and nearly implode.


	4. I hate you like I love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: “I hate you.”  
> “Are you sure that’s not the alcohol talking?”
> 
> Prompt 2: Where half of your OTP sings a love song while being drunk.

 

“Mycroft, I need assistance. I can only carry one inebriated idiot at a time and I choose John. If you don’t have Anthea here in five minutes, Lestrade is going to start molesting men.”, Sherlock said, his voice crackling over the phone.

“Anthea is on vacation, Sherlock”, said Mycroft as he pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes shut. “And my driver is currently busy too”.

“Doing what?”, asked Sherlock, his bellow making Mycroft tear the phone away from his ear and blink, startled.

“None of your business, brother mine”, he replied and stood up from his seat, his pulse racing with anticipation. “Have you tried calling Sergeant Donovan?”, he asked, though he was already aware of the answer.

“Donovan won’t take calls from John’s phone or mine. And Lestrade’s phone is dead, I already checked”, said Sherlock, his voice punctuated by raucous shouts in the background that could only be Dr. Watson and Lestrade singing at the top of their lungs.

“I will be there in five minutes, Sherlock. Make sure neither of them falls into the gutter or assaults anyone. The repercussions would be tragic”, he said as he walked out of his office to the parking lot. A spark lit up in his chest at the memory. He’d always loved her voice, despite her fierce reluctance to sing in front of him. But Ginny was unaware of how often she hummed under her breath, absent-minded. The small fragments of tunes would give him a window into her thoughts even before she’d looked up to acknowledge him. During those brief periods where she retreated to do her own thing, he didn't needed to deduce her thoughts from her words or mannerisms, it was all plain and obvious in her choice of song.

As he braked to stop outside the pub Sherlock had mentioned, he took a deep breath and tried to center his thoughts, even though his heart was hammering in his chest.  _She’s not yours, not any more._  He gritted his teeth and got out of the car as he put his mask in place, his brow now smooth, eyes narrow and lips drawn into a bored grimace. He looked at the crowd outside the pub as he crossed the street.

Sherlock nodded at him from where he stood bent over John. The doctor sat on the ground, leaning against the wall and yelling at the top of his lungs. Sherlock held John’s wrists in his hands, and tried to coax him to get up. “John, stop singing and get up. John!”, he said, but the blond man continued to giggle and slide away from him, nonsensical words tumbling out of his mouth.

Ginny on the other hand, was sitting on the ground cross-legged, singing for the gaggle of drunks around her. Her back was against the brick wall, her eyes closed, a slight frown on her brow as she tried to concentrate. Mycroft felt the stutter in his chest as he heard the song. He stopped in his tracks, his extended hand hovering in mid-air as he hesitated.

_**When you kiss me heaven sighs,** _

_**And though I close my eyes,** _

_**I see La Vie En Rose.** _

_**When you press me to your heart,** _

_**I’m in a world apart,** _

_**A world where roses bloom.** _

_**And when you speak angels sing from above** _

_**Everyday words seem to turn into love songs..** _

_**Give your heart and soul to me** _

_**And life will always be** _

_**La Vie En Rose..** _

It reminded him of better times, watching horror movies and cuddles on his 18th century sofa, midnight debates about their favorite cricket teams and stolen kisses in the rain, outside the Yard and in his car.

Mycroft was shaken out of his reverie by the cheering and clapping that erupted around her, from passersby and the drunk patrons who had filtered out of the pub at the sound of her voice. He narrowed his eyes at the tall leather jacket-clad man who stood beside her in a position that was too proprietary for his own good. Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s look of concern and Dr. Watson’s sad smile as he pushed through her crowd of admirers to get to her.  _Not difficult, seeing how uncoordinated they are_. He reached under her arms and picked her up in one clean motion, before she could realize what had happened.

He ignored the yells and taunts from the intoxicated bunch of idiots as they clamored for her to come back. The leather clad buffoon even had the gall to step in front of him, before withering away at the look Mycroft gave him.  _Habitual cheater, three girlfriends, used to be a drummer in his teens, works as a loader for a grocery store, extreme halitosis_ , he wanted to shout over his shoulder at the man. He motioned to Sherlock with one finger and led Ginny over to the car gently, trying to avoid entangling his legs with hers. She was determined to push at him instead of accepting his arm under her shoulder, so he led her to the car with his arms around her in a sort of awkward backward traipse.

“Let me go!”, she snapped at him, her feet shuffling to catch up as he pulled her along with him. He tried to ignore the heat she radiated as she leaned against him. It would not do to give in, it would not do.

“So you can go back and entertain a bunch of wasted pickpockets and philanderers? I think not”, he said, his voice low and shaking. He winced with regret as her face fell.  _You do not deal with a drunk person by shouting at them, Mycroft._

“They’re my friends!”, she shouted into his shoulder, though her eyelids were drooping, the flutter of her eyelashes slow and hypnotic. Mycroft gave in to his impulse and breathed her in, ignoring the remnants of hoppy beer and seeking the wisp of lavender underneath. He felt the calm spreading through his nerves as she held onto him, her grip on his waist growing tighter, even though they had crossed the street already and were standing still near the car door. She was pressed flush against him, which was worrying given his current..  _predicament_.

“Ginny”, he warned in a breathy voice and looked at Sherlock in a silent plea for help. His brother, however, ignored him in favor of making sure Dr. Watson was seated in the rear passenger seat carefully. Sherlock’s mouth curved in a smile as he fiddled with John’s seat belt and adjusted his head so to reduce the volume of his snores by one measly decibel. Mycroft gulped and allowed himself one more second of blissful proximity before wrenching her hands away from him and holding her steady. “I’m going to help you sit down, okay?”, he said in a hoarse whisper as he opened the front passenger door and tried to maneuver her to sit. She fell into the seat as she looked up at him, her eyebrows in a deep frown. He resisted the urge to kiss her mouth and secured her seat belt instead with fumbling hands.

“I hate you”, she said as he sat next to her and started the car.

He didn’t have to turn to her to realize how hurt she was.  _Broken_ , Anthea had said. And yet she’d recovered since she had begun seeing her lawyer friend. She’d only threatened to punch Sherlock twice last week; a vast improvement. His source at the Yard had even reported less shouting matches and an improved arrest rate in the last few months.  _Sharif Khan, eminent lawyer and front runner to be London’s Mayor, handsome and courteous, a silver fox._.. His treacherous memory filled in the gaps with snippets from the evening news. Of course, the pictures in the tabloids of her and Sharif kissing hadn’t helped. No wonder the Times now ended up in his shredder every two days.  _She is happy. She is whole_ , he told himself.

“Are you sure that’s not the alcohol talking?”, he asked, forcing his facial muscles up into a smile as he glanced sideways at her.

She considered it for a moment with serious eyes, only to shake her head emphatically. “No, it’s not, I’m sure”, she said. “Ow, that hurts”.

“Yes, I would advise you not to “headbang” for the next twelve hours, Inspector”, he said. He could feel Sherlock’s keen eyes on him. Mycroft concentrated on not moving his muscles even an inch. It took every fiber of his being to keep the mask in place.

“I hate you”, she repeated, as her head lolled sideways and the red lips parted in a yawn. “Like I love you”.


	5. My absolute favorite thing in the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask: What's Ginny's favorite thing about Mycroft?

Ginny’s favorite thing about him is his laugh. Irony and wit and her brilliant (yes, brilliant) attempts at puns amuse him to no end. Likewise, when they’re trying to get out of bed in the morning, racing to get to the shower, he can’t help but snort with amusement as he picks her up from the floor where she’s crash-landed, tangled in the sheets. Sometimes, after he’s done reading his daily allowance of Shakespeare, he gets up from his cozy chair and stands behind her at the stove, a long finger prodding her in the ribs. He’s chuckling as she swats at his hands. “What, you egg?”, he exclaims, using his index finger as an imaginary sword as he chases her around the dining table. His chest shakes with silent laughter when they’re in bed, trying something ‘new’ and Ginny is so nervous that she won’t stop talking. She can trace his grin with her tongue as he kisses her and makes it less awkward and **_Oh dear lord, so steamy_**. On the rare occasions when she’s standing knee-deep in the mud with her back turned to the rest of her team at a gory, ugly crime scene, her limbs shaking and her tear glands threatening a deluge, she knows what to do. She closes her eyes and conjures the memory of his laugh. _**This is what I live for**_ , she thinks and smiles as the twisting, curling ache behind her ribs abates, slowly but surely. _**This is my absolute favorite thing in the world**_.


	6. What is it with you and white shirts?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny cannot handle Mycroft in a white shirt. She just.. can't.

This little drabble was inspired by this photo of Mark Gatiss that broke my brain: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/497436721318876070/

“What is it with you and white shirts?”, he asks as I bunch my hands in his shirt and pull it out of his trousers. “It’s not about me and white shirts, love”, I say. “It’s white shirts on you”. I’m practically growling as I unbutton the €300 Armani shirt and pull it down his shoulders. 

Mycroft hisses as I make short work of the vest and nibble at his skin. He tastes wonderful. His hands are pulling me against him, his fingers digging into my arse. My hands struggle to reach every inch of his smooth, freckled skin. I want to trace every freckle with my fingertips, like counting stars in a midnight sky. But there is no time. He smells so good that I’m dying to taste the path from his navel to a waiting, red nipple. Instead, I nuzzle into the hollow of his throat as a growl escapes my lips. God, I’m no better than a ravenous beast finding a prize piece of bait.

As I kiss his jaw and bite into his neck, a half-bitten curse rumbles from his throat. “Now you’ve asked for it, Genevieve”, he says as my knees wobble. I hate my given name. It’s too long and pretentious. But from Myc’s mouth, the sound ebbs and flows like erotic poetry. Two fingers trace my bottom lip and I take them into  my mouth. I’m positively dripping and it grows even more at the jingle of his belt buckle and the soft hiss of leather sliding through his belt loops. My nails dig into his flanks as he slow-fucks my mouth with his fingers. I lave his digits with my tongue and suck on them as I drop to my knees, eager hands dragging his trousers and pants down to his ankles. 

“What’s the magic word?”, he whispers, withdrawing his wet fingers and tracing my cheekbone, keeping me at bay from my object of interest. I glare at the smirk on his face as the swell of heat overtakes my senses. “Please”, I whine and grasp his legs.

Soothing fingers run through my hair and he pulls me closer. “Good girl”, he says and gasps as my moan echoes around his hard, hot cock. 

 


	7. Sweet dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can be considered a follow-up to chapter 3, but can be read on it's own too.

I can scarcely believe my luck. Propositioning handsome strangers at bars is highly atypical of me. But here I am, stepping into the man’s flat.

“What’s your name?”, he asks again, pulling me out of my reverie. I shut the door behind us, ignoring the question in favor of examining his flat.  _Basic second-hand furniture, dust-free surfaces, cardboard boxes lined up against the kitchen wall. Bare walls, mopped floors and the lingering scent of lemons. **He’s preparing to move**._

“Why?”. I shrug off my coat.

His brows draw together. “What do you mean,  _why_? I don’t fall into bed with people whose name I don’t know.” His eyes follow my hands as I carefully hang my coat on a hook behind the door before turning back to him.

“You must have a long list of names then", I murmur and step closer. My hands shake as I hesitate. When it came to sexual encounters, I’ve never been in a position where I’m expected to lead _. What if I do or say the wrong thing? Should I give up and leave before I embarrass myself?_  But all thoughts of leaving evaporate as he laughs and snakes his arms around my waist. “I can count them on one hand, actually. Sorry to disappoint".

My lips find the crook of his neck and one hand drowns in his soft brown hair. He smells of warm apple cider and cinnamon. I drag the garnet zipper pull of his leather jacket slowly, chuckling as he seizes my lapels.

“You can’t distract me", he groans, trying to pull away and kiss me at the same time.

“Really?”.

He hisses when I grip his hardening cock through his denims.

“It appears that I already have".

“Mmmm”. He grips my jacket even harder. Normally I would fight off any attempts at vandalizing my attire, but at this moment I couldn’t care less.

“Kiss me, beautiful”, he orders. I lunge at the invitation, bruising his lips with mine, my hands unbuttoning his shirt. I try to go slow, but he tastes too wonderful, too warm to stop.

“Wait, wait!”. He squints and gives me a once-over. Worry creeps into his eyes as he grasps my shoulders.  “You’ve never done this before, have you?”.

I gulp and back away. “I wouldn’t say never", I mumble, my eyes flickering from his face to the floor and back. My cheeks are burning, so much that he notices. His eyes are round as saucers. He reaches towards me and his mouth falls open. 

 _Brilliant, he knows you’re a virgin._  He stops as my feet slip on the floor and my back hits the door. I’m panting as if I’ve run a mile.“ I think it would be best if I left”, I whirl around to get my coat.

“What? No!”.

I frown, unease creeping up my spine as I turn to see his face.  _Eyes blinking rapidly, pupils dilated, mouth gaping open, brow creased with worry._ He’s somehow attracted to and protective of me at the same time.  _Highly unusual_.

“I mean…you’re free to go if you want. But I wish you wouldn’t.” he says softly, taking a step back and folding his hands across his chest. “I just need to be sure you want this. With me.” His tone is gentle, but firm.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” I say, nonplussed.

He grins, though doubt still lingers on his face. “Are you sure?”

My face heats up again, for an entirely different reason. “ _Yes_ ", I whisper.

“All right.” My skin breaks out in goosebumps at his husky tone. “Now, we need boundaries. And basic techniques. Stop me when something’s too much or doesn’t feel right, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. May I?” He asks, holding my chin between his thumb and index finger. I nod hastily.

“First, brush your lips against mine.” He instructs, following with a demonstration. My eyes scrunch closed at the contact.  _Gods, he’s good._

“Tease”. He whispers as he steps closer. His hips press against mine while he lightly runs his fingers through my hair and down my back. I gasp as he breaks contact and nibbles at my lips, tongue slowly  prying my mouth open. "Now you", he groans, eyes half-lidded.

I follow his example, taking my time to tease him until he responds, complaining loudly as I take his bottom lip between my teeth and lick it.

“You’re a fast learner, aren’t you?”. He swallows hard and I chuckle at the wonder in his eyes. In the glow of the streetlight streaming through the window, he looks even more wonderful. He could have anyone he wanted, yet he chose me. He could have demanded anything, but instead he chose to teach me. My heart swelled to twice its size.

“You don’t know the half of it”. I palm his erection. My limbs are shaking as I kiss him, our tongues seeking each other's, yearning to taste, to feel the other tremble when one of us finds a sensitive spot. He grabs my wrists and pushes them flat against the door, taking his time to devour my mouth.

A few glorious minutes later, when we finally come up for air, he hurries to unbutton my shirt. “I want to see you first", he breathes into my ear.

I can’t deny him anything. It’s rare for me to willingly undress in front of anyone, but as he sheds each layer, he lays open-mouthed, hungry kisses on my skin. I grumble when he steps away.

“You’re beautiful, love", he says, chocolate brown eyes sliding down my form. The blind devotion in his eyes is overwhelming. “Beautiful”, he repeats and shrugs his jacket off. It lands in a heap on the floor, followed by his shirt, denims, socks and pants in quick succession.

His skin is golden compared to mine, and glows in the dim living room light. A smattering of brown hair covers his torso, trailing down to his flat stomach and strong legs. I bite my lip as his fingers close around his hard cock.  _Larger than average, thicker than others I’ve seen_ , my brain registers.

“Come here". He takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. I grip one of his arse cheeks, unable to resist my animal instincts.

“Impatient little charmer”. His voice bubbles with laughter. I sit on the bed and scoot towards the headboard. He leans over me, his tongue and teeth playing havoc with my nipples.

Suddenly, he stops. “I’m clean.” he says, looking up. “Are you?”

“Yes, yes!”. I thank Providence that my job requires routine blood tests.

He grins and licks a stripe down my chest. I shiver at the contact and his grin grows. “I love those freckles”, he sighs and kisses my shoulders. I whimper as the rough, calloused palms caress my legs. “And your legs, love”, he grunts and nibbles at my neck. “Those legs never end, do they? Christ. Look at you". I lean up into his touch, demanding more. Soon, my skin is plentifully bestrewn with angry bruises.

“Please”, I hiss. I need friction, pressure, anything.  _Now_. He plants his elbows next to my hips and pulls my legs up. My insides churn as I realize what he’s about to do.

“You’re fucking huge, you know that?”.

My shout echoes across the room as he wraps a hand around my erection. I’m mewling as he strokes me slowly, his thumb brushing the head to swipe at the precum. Our gazes meet as he licks a stripe up my cock and cups my balls with one hand. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck!”, I scream at the ceiling.

“Nasty mouth you’ve got there, beautiful". Red lips close around my leaking cock and he sucks, the devilish tongue making rude slurping noises that make me thrash around on the bed. The heat and sudden pressure nearly make me finish on the spot. I’m wailing and trying to grasp at his hair when he lets go of me and climbs up my body.

“Sorry, sorry, too much, is it?” He runs his fingers through my hair. “We can go slow.”

I nod, eyes scrunched shut, easing into his touch again. I yank him closer and kiss him, hard. My hands run over every inch of him. It’s not enough. Soon, I’m not the only one who’s shaking.

“All right, love, what do you want?”.

“I…I want to be inside you.” It’s ambitious of me, considering I’ve never done it before. But from the way his eyes close and a helpless moan falls from his mouth, it’s clear I’ve said exactly the right thing.

“Christ", he groans and grips the base of his cock. “Okay, okay”. After a moment of rummaging in the night stand, he places a bottle of lube (Strawberry flavored lube, I file away for later use) and a condom next to us. “Would you like to-“

“Yes. Fuck. Yes”. I know the theory, even though I’ve never seen the practical up close. He coats my fingers with lube and grips my wrist. “Slow, one at a time”, he says, hoarse.

I nod and lean up to kiss his torso as my other hand kneads his arse.  _God, that arse_. He throws his head back as my lube coated finger gently presses against his hole, stroking him there. After a few moments, he nods, his nails digging into my shoulder. We both gasp as I breach him. He scoots closer and lays a kiss on the top of my head. I try to be gentle as I bury my finger into him, up to the third knuckle. He’s hot and tight, whimpering and keening as I slide my middle finger in and out of him, slow and sure.

“Are you okay?”.

“Yes. More”, he begs.

After a few more seconds, I extract my finger, add more lube, and press them against him. “Oh God, oh God”, he moans and throws his head back. His brow contracts, a bead of sweat runs down his temple as he mouths sweet nothings against my temple. As pain and pleasure swirl on his face, competing, I learn what he likes.  _Slow, determined movements, with pressure building until he knows he can take more. Soothing sounds whispered into his ear as I fuck him with my fingers. My tongue on his nipples. Friction on his cock, but just the right amount._  I use my other hand to stroke his cock and scissor my fingers inside him, stretching him for me as he whines. As my fingers curl towards me and reach instinctively, he bucks in my grasp. From his rousing shout, it’s clear I’ve struck gold.

By the time I use three fingers to enter him, his legs are quaking. I pull him closer to me and let him sink down onto my lap, kissing away the breathy moans spilling out of his mouth. As my fingers ghost over his prostate again, he curses, eyes scrunched shut. “Please, please, love, fuck me”, he begs, hips moving so he’s fucking himself on my fingers. I bite into his neck and curl my fingers again, enjoying the delighted squeal that rings in my ears. “Now, please. Fuck me, do it now".

I remove my fingers from him and lie on my back. “How do you want to-?”.

“Like this. I want to ride you”. He’s braced over me, in control.

“Take your time”, I say as the head of my sheathed cock nuzzles at his opening. My eyes roll back at the breathtaking pressure. We both let out an audible sigh as the thick head gets past the tight ring of muscle.  _I’m inside him, I’m actually fucking this vision of a man_ , my brain screams. I watch with rapt attention, recording every little detail about this very moment. The color rising to his cheeks; my heart rate escalating as I slide inside him; the silver in his hair glowing in the dim light; his half-sob, half-shout as he stretches further around me.

He’s trembling like a leaf, trying to keep his arms steady as he sinks further down. “You’re…fuck, you’re huge", he grunts, chest heaving.

I run soothing hands up and down his sides, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. As a lock of cocoa-colored hair falls into his eyes, I brush it away and rub his lower lip with my thumb. My cock twitches inside him as he sinks lower. “That’s it, there you go. Lovely. Gods, I want to fuck you so badly", I encourage him.

It takes him a few minutes to adjust to me. Slowly but surely, the frown disappears from his brow and his grip on my shoulders eases. His eyes are half-lidded and slightly unfocused as he leans over me, face inches from mine. I hiss as his hips twitch and he takes my thumb into his mouth.  _Mine. All mine_. I want to shout. I grip his hair and pull him to me. He whimpers, the sound muffled by our mouths crashing together.

“Yes, God yes", I moan, sinking into the warmth. Thirty minutes earlier, I was nursing a bruised hand and looking wistfully at a handsome man across a bar. Now, we’re fucking in his flat, still oblivious of each other’s names.

I clutch his waist and will myself to not slam into him.  _Are you all right,_  I want to ask him, but the words die in my throat. His eyes are shut tight, the red lips trembling as a stream of nonsensical words tumbles from his mouth. Drops of precum from his leaking cock land on my belly. I press my mouth to his jaw and stare at him in awe.  _Glorious, you’re glorious_.

He must have spotted my ardent expression, for he stops moving his hips. A wild grin lights up his face as he squeezes around me so hard I see stars.

“Stop. Teasing", I whine at the third time.

“Then fuck me”, he orders and nips at the skin under my ear. I didn’t know it was possible, but I grow even harder. I slip my arms around his ribs in a secure hold and roll us sideways until I’m on top of him.

“Hungry?”, I ask and slide deeper into him. We both groan as we’re pressed flush together. My lips gravitate to his before he can answer. My skin is on fire, my heart soaring as he wraps his arms around me.

“Starving", he whispers. “It’s Greg, by the way.”

It suits him. Watchful, protective. It’s  _him_. The amount of trust in his eyes rattles me to my core. “Mycroft”. I give in at last. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Gregory’s pupils grow darker as they travel to where we are joined together and swivel back to meet my gaze. We’re moving in sync now, and the intensity builds. I aim for the same spot again and again until his hands are scrabbling at my back and his knees are pressed to my sides. “Beautiful name. For a beautiful man.” he gasps between breaths.

I nearly laugh. No one’s ever said that. I’m certain no one’s even thought it. But here’s Gregory, opening up to me, calling me beautiful, without an iota of doubt on his face.

“Hey,” he says, “I mean it.” His brow is furrowed and his jaw set.

 _You don’t have to lie_ , I almost say, but as I’m pulled into his tight embrace, my tongue is in his mouth. Realization washes over me, leaving my nerves blazing with raw want. I want to make Gregory scream my name as he explodes. I want to fuck him into the mattress until we’re both spent and unable to move a muscle. I never want it to be tomorrow.

“Oh God, that’s it, that’s it", he says, wrapping his legs around me and rising to meet me as I increase the pace. I aim for the sweet spot on every third thrust and bite into the skin above his right collarbone. My left hand braces against the wall behind the headboard as my thrusts get more forceful. I’m assaulting his prostate and saying filthy things in his ear.

“Mycroft, Myc..” He cries, his hand sneaking down to cup my balls. “Myc, please, right there, right there”. His cock is nearly purple and hard as steel as I stroke him in rhythm with our movements. The thought of tasting him nearly tips me over the edge. We’re not going to last long, either of us. But that doesn’t perturb me, for it’s not tomorrow yet.

“Come for me, Gregory", I plead. “Come around my cock. Do it. Do it now!”

My balls are tightening as he howls in my ear, spurting across my chest and screaming my name loud enough for the whole street to hear. I follow him seconds later, jerking from head to toe as I come inside him. I keep fucking him until I can move no more.

We lie together, unwilling to pull away. The air reeks of sex, strawberry lube and  _us_. When the rest of my senses return to me, I try to roll off him so I’m not crushing his ribs. He grasps my waist and holds me securely. “No moving!”, he complains loudly in my ear.

Later, while he’s resting, I clean him up with a warm washcloth from the bathroom. I keep my touch soft as he parts his legs and hums with satisfaction. “That was..”, he hesitates and runs a hand through his hair, smiling up at me.

“I know.” I toss the washcloth on the floor and climb back into bed. It’s ridiculous to spend the rest of our time together anywhere but right next to him. There’s a wide, unabashed grin on my face. It’s unstoppable, no matter how much I try. It mirrors his, however.

His hand is warm against my cheek. I lean into it and close my eyes. “Stay, Mycroft", he says, lips pressing against my cheekbone. “Stay the night".

Our gazes meet as we kiss lazily, and yet I feel no urge to flinch.

“Sleep next to me.” His fingers trail down my spine. “Please?”

“You constantly amaze me", I blurt and rest my head on his shoulder. Tomorrow will be dealt with when it dawns. For now, this is where I want to be.

“I take that as a yes then, beautiful", says Gregory. “Sweet dreams".


	8. Please, you can't die now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompts:  
> "Please, you can't die now" and "Quicker, you freaking piece of-".  
> Enjoy! :)

“Please, you can’t die now”, Greg whispered, shaking his head. When they had planned the stakeout to apprehend one of the Peckham gang’s suppliers, they’d set plans in place for all possible casualties.

_Except this one._

“If you die, I will kill you”. Greg was aware of Sherlock and John giggling next to him. “Shut it, you two”, he griped and glared at the blue screen of his beloved iPhone 4S. It flickered and buzzed once more as he punched the Home key with his thumb.

 _This can’t be happening._  Not now, after eight years of shitty service. It had never done this before. Plus, they could be here for hours. How would he text Mycroft? Greg sighed.  _Great._  This meant another argument. As if they didn’t have enough of those already. And all because Greg had a phone that didn’t work and stubbornly refused to buy a new one. Amid the divorce, buying a new flat and paying alimony, he knew he couldn’t afford another major expense right away, but there was no way he was telling Myc that. Instead, he insisted that the stupid thing had sentimental value (it did not) and could be repaired (it could not).

Just then, it gave an angry beep and vibrated, nearly slipping out of his grasp. Greg hurried to text Myc.

**Still alive. Five more hours to go, I think.**

His eyes bulged as the signal disappeared. He willed the message to send and slapped the phone on his thigh, trying to shake sense into it. “Quicker, you freaking piece of-”.

“Gregory”.

Greg turned around. He stared at his boyfriend, confused. They were at a stakeout, literally crouched behind the fire escape of a dingy warehouse, trying not to be seen, and here was Myc, strolling up casually as if he’d spotted him across a crowded room.

“What are you doing? Get down here, they’ll see you!”, he hissed.

“Gladys is right, Mycroft. You’re blowing our cover”, Sherlock spat at his brother.

“Unlikely, given how the gang was tipped off by your informant. They won’t be here tonight. You need a new plan”, Mycroft said coolly.

“Wait, what?”. Greg stood up and got out of their hiding spot. They both ignored Sherlock’s frustrated shout and John’s attempts to soothe him. “How long have you known this? Why am I just finding out?”, Greg asked.

“We intercepted their communication an hour ago. I would have told you, but of course, you were difficult to reach”. Mycroft glanced at the now dead phone in Greg’s hand and gritted his teeth. 

“You could have told Sherlock. We wouldn’t have camped out in Mudville for an hour”, Greg grumbled defensively. But Mycroft didn’t respond. Instead, he turned to Sherlock and John, who glanced at each other, turned around and made their way to the mouth of the alley. Out of earshot.

Mycroft’s hands were shaking as he looked back at him. His upper lip curled in a snarl, before he hesitated and took a deep breath. “Do you”, he said finally, the words breathed out as if he’d been hit in the chest and was struggling to be heard. “Do you not want this?”.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Want.. what?”, he asked, confused. It was rare for Mycroft to be vague. He was usually blunt about his observations. Too blunt, sometimes.

Mycroft didn’t respond. Instead, he averted his eyes and breathed through his mouth. He fixed his gaze on the ground between them, and gestured at the space between them with a gloved hand. “This, Greg”.

Greg’s eyes flew wide open. He knew this look, he’d seen it before. It was Mycroft when he spoke to his mother (fat lot of good those conversations did) or tried to ignore another fat joke from Sherlock. It riled Greg up to no end. It made him want to call up the Holmes family and give them a piece of his mind. But now he had caused it, somehow. He gulped as his stomach clenched uneasily.

“Oh no”, he said and closed the distance between them, touching Myc’s arm. “What did I do?”. Mycroft flinched at the contact. He looked away, hesitating, but Greg didn’t miss how his eyes lingered on the his left pocket, where he’d put away the phone. Greg gaped stupidly as realization dawned.

During the six months that they’d been dating, Mycroft had hinted at least four times that Greg should get a new phone; he even offered to gift him one on his birthday. But Greg rejected his requests, all for the sake of his stupid pride.

“Oh God, I’m such an idiot”. Greg pulled Myc into his arms. “I’m sorry, Myc. Of course I want this. I just.. didn’t want you to spend a ton of money on a new phone. I didn’t want to take advantage of you”.

Mycroft’s features were still clouded with uncertainty. “It’s not just about the damn phone”, he said, his tone biting. “You like having your time to yourself, Gregory. Which I understand, but when we’ve agreed to meet and I still can’t get in touch with you an hour later, it makes me wonder if you even  _want_  to see me”.

Greg gulped down the lump in his throat. He couldn’t even imagine how hurt Mycroft must have been, all this time. He tried to speak, but the words didn’t make it to his lips.  _You have no idea, do you?_  He couldn’t begin to describe the storm of feelings inside him. Instead, he gripped Mycroft’s hair and crushed their mouths together. His other hand snaked around his boyfriend’s waist and held him, secure. He pried Myc’s mouth open and tasted him, trying to reassure him, to wash away the doubt. He stroked a thumb behind Myc’s ear and brought his mouth closer. Greg needed to show him, he had to tell him. He couldn’t bear it if Myc didn’t know.

“I want you. I want you”, he whispered between kisses. Myc’s arms wound around him, hesitant at first. They slid to his shoulders, as if to push him away. As Greg slowed down, brushing his hands up Myc’s back, carding through his hair, leaning into him, Myc’s grip on his shoulders loosened. Greg sensed the moment his barriers broke, as Myc’s hands fisted in his shirt and he groaned, trembling in his arms. They kissed until they swayed on their feet and clutched each other for support.

A sob shook Myc’s chest as their foreheads drew together.

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way. I really am”, Greg said. “I want to see you all the time, Myc. I can’t go a day, fuck, an hour, without thinking about you. I was just scared I’d overwhelm you”. He brushed away the wetness from the corners of Myc’s eyes.

His breath escaped him in a huff as Mycroft scanned him for a tell. Greg’s heart lurched. He laid it bare; his love, his apprehension, his obsession with the man. He wasn’t hiding any more. He was here, in his entirety, and Myc could do what he willed with him. “I love you”, Greg croaked. “Now you know”.

Myc’s smile was a treasure to behold. It dazzled in the dim glow from the lamp post; it made Greg’s chest uncoil and thrum with pleasure. “Overwhelm me”, Myc said, nuzzling their noses together. “Drench me. I’m yours”.

Greg giggled, delirious with joy. His lips grazed under Myc’s ear, tracing a path from there back to his mouth. “Good, it’s decided, then. We’re gonna re-do this. From the start”.

“It appears so”.

“First, you’re buying me a new phone”. Greg took Myc’s hand in his. “Then I’m buying you dinner”.

His boyfriend nodded, beaming.

“And after that”, Greg said, raising his volume as he looked over his shoulder. “ _Billy_  is going to work this case while you and I have a nice hot bath. Completely naked, of course”.


	9. Quiet, they can hear us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the lovely daynaan, who sent me the prompt "Quiet, they can hear us".

“I swear to God, Mycroft, if John and Sherlock walk in on us right now, I’m telling them the truth”, Greg said. He bit his hand and stifled his moan as Myc mouthed at his cock through his jeans. Greg’s mind reeled. This wasn’t happening. They could not be in 221B, doing what they were doing. For fuck’s sake, they were in Sherlock’s bedroom.

His boyfriend rolled his eyes before unzipping his jeans and taking him in his hand. “They’ll never believe you, Gregory”, Mycroft declared, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

Greg’s hand scrabbled to get a hold of Myc’s hair as he licked a stripe up his cock. “Christ”, he whimpered and closed his eyes. Mycroft chuckled and closed his mouth around Greg’s erection, swallowing him down halfway. “When I said ‘our sex life needs more adventure’ I did not mean we should do it in Sherlock’s bedroom, Mycroft.” He’d hoped to sound angry, but he cringed as he heard his own pleading tone.

He’d been dating Mycroft for a year now. In that period, Myc had transformed from a shy, curious lover into an insatiable beast who loved to take charge. Greg, on the other hand, had learned to let go. It had taken lots of practice, not that he was complaining. His boyfriend was practically sex on legs.

Mycroft released him. “What’s more adventurous than the risk of getting caught?”, he asked and swallowed him down deeper, till the head of Greg’s cock hit the back of his throat. “Oh God, oh God”, Greg moaned. Myc pressed his boyfriend’s hips against the wall as his head bobbed up and down.

Greg’s brain short-circuited. The warm, wet heat and the added pressure of Myc’s tongue made him curl his toes into the carpet. He howled into his left hand as Mycroft swallowed around the head. Myc wasn’t playing around today, he realized. They’d barely been here for five minutes, and he was already gunning for the finish line. He looked down at his lover. Myc’s eyes were closed in concentration. The long eyelashes fluttered as Greg pushed gently with his hips. Mycroft growled in response, his eyes flying open, fingernails digging into Greg’s arse.

Myc relaxed his throat around him and blinked once, hard. Greg carded his fingers through his lover’s red hair. His heart thrummed with joy. It had nothing and everything to do with what they were doing, here and now. He was in love, he realized with a pang. He chuckled at Mycroft’s furious look. “You don’t like being kept waiting, do you? Demanding little brat”, he said and resumed his movements. They both groaned as the pressure built.

Greg nearly squealed as Mycroft snaked a hand down to the front of his own trousers. The unstoppable moans from his mouth went straight to Greg’s cock, making him arch his back till his head hit the wall. Myc’s mouth was hot and his long, elegant fingers were working magic. Utter, blinding magic. They were making such a ruckus that even Mrs. Hudson could hear them now. Greg didn’t care. He was close.. so close.. nearly there.. until..

BANG!!!

They both stopped moving as the downstairs door crashed open. John and Sherlock were home. From the loud thumps on the stairs, it was clear that Sherlock was not happy.

“Fuck, fuck”. Greg cursed and tried to pull Mycroft up. “I told you, I told you we would get caught”.

“Quiet. They can hear us”, said Mycroft, still perched on his knees.

“I know. Which means we should fuck off. Get up”. Greg tried to stuff his cock back into his pants, but Mycroft held his wrists apart.

“Or. We can finish”, he murmured and took Greg down his throat in one clean motion. Greg’s nails scratched at the wall, his mouth falling open with shock. As Myc sucked quickly around him, the orgasm hit him with the force of a bullet train. In addition to his own yell, he heard a loud crash and multiple bangs through the fog surrounding him. Mycroft was supporting his weight and shielding him from the two people who walked in on them.

“Kill me! Kill me in the eyes!!!”, Sherlock screamed as he tried to fight off John, who was struggling to hold in his laughter. He heard the door slam as John tacked Sherlock back into the corridor.

Mycroft was grinning, his red lips swollen and shining. He cleaned Greg gently with his handkerchief and hummed quietly. “Are you quite all right?”, he asked, frowning as Greg swayed slightly in his grasp.

“I’m fine”, Greg croaked. “But I have a feeling that this wasn’t about me”.

His boyfriend stared, confused. “Nonsense. Everything is about you.”, he said.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Nice try. I am a licensed detective, you know. What did he do?”.

Myc hesitated. “He might have shown John a photo of the both of us when we were teenagers.”

“So?”.

“So? So, I had extremely curly hair and wore a hideous set of braces that I hate until this very day”.

Greg grinned at the image in his head.

“And he wore a disgusting orange suit”, they heard John’s voice through the closed door. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“What was Sherlock wearing?”, Greg asked.

Myc grinned, unabashed. “A green jumper that said ‘Frankie says relax’. It’s derived from pop culture, I think.”

Greg laughed aloud. This was precious. He had to see this photo.

“Mycroft, if you and Gunther’s naked arse are not out of my flat in one minute, I will egg your car!”, Sherlock shouted.

“All right, all right, we’re going!”, Greg yelled before he turned to Mycroft and kissed him on the cheek. “But only once I’ve seen this picture. Unless you want Donovan to see it.”

Mycroft beamed. “Have I ever told you that I love you?”, he asked.

“Nope. But you better start now.”


	10. Call me now. It's urgent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompts "Call me now. It's urgent" and "Have you lost your mind?".

Ginny walked out of the hospital in a daze. The myriad voices and sounds of traffic combined into an angry buzz in her ear. As she dropped the car keys on her third attempt to unlock the door, she grew aware of her hands shaking and her soaring pulse. _Now there’s an emotion I recognize. Fear._ She took another deep breath as the car keys finally turned in the lock and the door opened. As soon as she was in her seat, she speed-dialed Mycroft. 

Ten seconds later, it hit her. _Of course._ He was in Paris. Doing what, God only knew. “For fuck’s sake”, she shouted at the phone as it kept ringing. _I can’t do this alone. I can’t.. Jesus Christ._ She sighed. It was bad enough that he traveled so much for work, but didn’t he have the basic decency to at least acknowledge her calls and messages?

 _Fine, I’ll leave a voicemail. Another one. Like the eight others I left this fucking week._ Her voice shook as she spoke. “Hey. It’s your me. It’s Ginny. It's wife. Call me back. It’s urgent”.

She disconnected the call and drove out of the lot, operating on autopilot. A shiver ran through her, her skin suddenly clammy and cold. “How can I be cold? It’s bloody autumn!”, she shouted into the abyss.  _Home, I need to get home. I need ice cream and a shock blanket. And Mycroft_. She chuckled darkly at the thought. “Great, ice cream and blankets it is”.

Her sleeve grew wet as she wiped her face with her hand and stared at the road ahead. _Thank God I don’t have to go back to work like this._ “I guess blacking out in a team meeting at 9 AM has its advantages”, she said to the windshield. 

When she finally unlocked the front door and dropped her bag on the cold tiles, Ginny made a quick trip to the freezer and headed straight for bed. She didn’t bother to change or undress. _Who cares? It’s just me here anyway._ She sank into the warmth under the covers and let it lull her into tranquility. Soon, even the rapid undulations of her lungs slowed down. _Later, I’ll deal with this l _ater_ , _ she thought before sleep enveloped her.

* * *

There was no light streaming in through the windows any more. Plus, someone was in her bed. Hugging her. The warm hand on her shoulder startled her and she jerked up, arms flying as she tried to tackle the impostor.

He chuckled as she clawed at his back. 

Ginny blinked. “Mycroft?”. It sure smelled like him. Cedar, honey and thunderstorms. _That’s stupid, nothing smells like thunderstorms._ “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Paris?“.

He leaned back to look at her. There were fine lines on his forehead, his hair was tousled, eyes tinged red around the edges. _Exhaustion._ “We couldn’t take our phones to the negotiations, so I only got all of your messages today. When I heard that last one, I knew I had to get home right away”. He clutched her hand in his, so tightly she winced. “Tell me what’s wrong”.

Ginny considered it. She didn’t know when she’d begun keeping things to herself, but that’s how they worked now. Pretending everything was fine while screaming internally. Presenting a calm, organized front to the world, while in reality, they barely spoke to each other. It was bloody infuriating. And she’d had enough.

“Ginny. Stop that”, he said, gritting his teeth. “Just tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt? Were you injured? Why is there a fresh bruise on your forehead? Talk”.

“Oh, that. I.. I blacked out this morning at work. Must have hit a desk”. She’d forgotten about the bruise. It was barely important, in light of other things.

Mycroft’s eyes widened and his arms loosened around her. “You WHAT?”. His eyes roved over her, trying to process every bit of information and come up with a diagnosis. He took her pulse with trembling hands. His face crumpled, eyes blinking rapidly as he failed to reach a conclusion. “Your pulse is weak. You look famished. Did you forget to eat? Ginny, what the _fuck_ is going on?”. His voice was barely a croak.

His panic revived the hitherto dormant storm inside her. Ginny sat up and braced herself against the sudden tears. “Look”, she said, holding up her hands between them. “I didn’t do this on purpose, and I don’t know how the hell it happened. It’s not my fault”. She wiped her cheeks. 

Fear and confusion swirled on his face. “What’s not your fault?”.

“I’m..”, she stopped and looked at her feet instead. “Argh, I’m pregnant”. 

His hand slipped from her grasp. It fell on the bed with a soft thump. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied his chest rise and fall rapidly. 

“And I love you, but you don’t want this”, she continued, adamant on getting it all out at once. “If that means choosing between you and having a child, I-”, she paused to breathe. _I’m barely making any sense._ Her voice was barely audible as it croaked past the lump in her throat. "I don’t want to choose, Mycroft, I want both of you”. She continued staring at her feet, waiting for him to respond, cringing as she waited for his disappointment to unfold.

“You.. are you.. have you lost your mind?”, he asked instead. His eyes blazed with anger as he stared at her.  


“Excuse me?”.  


“What makes you think I want you to choose? Why would I ever.. Jesus, Ginny, this is what happens when you keep everything to yourself! For God’s sake, why would I ever make you choose between our child and me, you idiot?”. His shout echoed around their bedroom, making her flinch. A vein was popping in his forehead. The Ginny one. He was shaking with fury, staring at her as if she’d just said something extremely stupid and offensive.  


“But you.. Wait. _You_ said that having children wasn’t feasible, given our commitment to our careers”. Her head swayed. Had she misheard him?  


Mycroft’s eyes widened with shock before he sighed and dropped his gaze. “Oh, right. Of course I said that”, he grumbled. “That was shortly after the episode at Sherrinford, wasn’t it? Sherlock nearly died, and so did I. I barely had any confidence in my own abilities to be a father, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you that”. His features clouded with guilt.

Ginny gaped at him, shocked. Mycroft was scared of being a bad father?The man who had single handedly raised his brother when their parents were too busy grieving and mourning over their lost child. The elder brother who had always prioritized Sherlock’s well-being over his own and had offered to take a bullet to the heart so Sherlock wouldn’t lose his best friend again. It was inconceivable. It was absurd. “Well, that’s stupid!”, she said,   


“You think so?”. He smiled, a trace of hope in his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he gulped nervously. Ginny’s heart lurched in her chest. She went to him, wrapping him in her arms and resting her head on his shoulder. “God, Myc. That’s a stupid thing to believe. You’d make a wonderful father. I know it and so do you, you stupid man”. They both shook as he sobbed. “May I remind you that you called _me_ an idiot only seconds before?”, she asked. She gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.   


“I’m sorry”. The words gushed out of him. “I love you”. His arms tightened around her rib cage. “I know I’m not home as much as we both wish, but I can remedy that _today_ ”. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. “You are everything to me. Everything. There’s nothing I want more than being close to you. Both of you. You’ve made me so happy”. His voice broke. Hot tears landed on her shoulder. She kissed his cheek and smiled against his skin. _Silly, wonderful man._ They held each other until their world stopped shaking and each breath grew lighter. The knot in her chest loosened; even the ringing in her ears disappeared, replaced by Myc’s hums of approval as her palms ran up and down his back. 

He dragged her chin toward him, till she could look into her eyes. “Promise me”, he whispered, urgent. “Promise me you’ll stop pushing me away. That you’ll talk to me again”. He shook her shoulders. “Promise me. Do it now!”.  


Ginny rested her forehead against his, smiling. “I promise.”

They kissed hard, groaning in approval. Her hands bunched in his shirt. Mycroft ran soothing fingers through her hair and chuckled. “I’m here”, he whispered into her mouth. “I’m here, I’m not going away”. 

“Good. Never do”.


	11. Not what you expected, eh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's just say that I lost my mind from watching soooo many gifs of Rupert Graves' tongue in one day. I guess I need to limit my intake. :D

Inspired by all the gifs of Rupert’s tongue I’ve seen over the past few days. For [@itsnotaniesha](https://tmblr.co/mdy-OpLUHjvmjDoyVFSl-Ww). Cos you’re cool like that. :D

“He can’t keep doing this, Mycroft! I can’t give him any more cases to work on. It’s the third time he’s stolen evidence!”

“Detective Inspector”, Mycroft tried to interrupt the man shouting and pacing across his office. Gregory flicked his right wrist and waved away the formality. “It’s Greg”, he snapped and continued his rant.

“My team thinks I’m an idiot to bring him back each time. My boss is breathing down my neck because I can’t control him”. Suddenly, the police officer halted in his tracks, put his hands on his waist and glared at Mycroft. “And don’t you dare try to convince me that this is a minor inconvenience! I’ll have his hide when I find him!”. His voice echoed in the tiny office.

“You will do no such thing”, Mycroft ordered in a bored voice as he twirled a pen with his fingers. That last sentence was terribly presumptuous of the DI, but Mycroft would let it slide for now. He’d heard Gregory vent for five whole minutes.  It was rather extravagant by Mycroft’s standards. He was surprised Anthea had not made an appearance yet to drag the man out of his office. Yes, Sherlock had stolen evidence. Yet again. But would he not turn up eventually with the dead woman’s bag and solve the case for the DI? Yes, his team would think Gregory was a gullible goose, but that was hardly important. It was just a matter of gaining leverage over each of them and ensuring their silence. Easily done. Half a day’s work at the most.

“Excuse me?”, Gregory asked, his voice low with anger. 

The tone made Mycroft glance up. Gregory’s upper lip twitched, his stance widened as anger radiated through his nervous system. “What did you just say to me?”.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. The DI had some fine qualities, but his theatrics were getting on Mycroft’s nerves. Had he not made himself clear? “I said you will do no such thing, Detective Inspector. Sherlock will return to his flat with your evidence in approximately two hours and solve your case for you, yet again. In return, he will continue to work on your cases just as before. _You_ will leave my office this instant and stop wasting any more of my time”.

Gregory stared back at him, a huff of amazed laughter escaping him. “I will do no such thing, Mr. Holmes”. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat at the husky tone. The angrier Gregory became, the lower his voice got. If Mycroft kept this up, Gregory would soon be whispering irately at him from across the room. The DI opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. His tongue darted out to lick his lips before they parted in a breathy exhale.

Mycroft gulped as his blood suddenly rushed south. His gaze followed the pink muscle as Gregory ran a hand through his hair and pursed his lips. The tip stayed imprisoned between his incisors as the DI closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Mycroft swore under his breath. _Damn the man. Damn that devious tongue._  Gregory was constantly pausing in conversation to lick his lips, or brooding and catching the tip of his tongue between his teeth. The worst was when he wagged it around wildly to tease someone. It wreaked havoc on Mycroft’s senses. Even when he was on live TV, his indolent tongue would peek out from his mouth and go back into hiding. It was all done under two seconds, hardly noticeable to anyone. Anyone, that is, who wasn’t Mycroft.

Initially, Mycroft had assumed it was a self-conscious gesture, suggesting embarrassment or nervousness. But the more his acquaintance with the DI grew, the more he witnessed The Tongue, regardless of Gregory’s state of mind. The sheer lack of a relationship between internal or external stimuli and the gesture confounded Mycroft. It was a mystery that needed to be resolved. To that end, Mycroft had spent many an hour studying Gregory’s tongue on his HD LCD television, rewinding the CCTV footage, pausing it at exactly the right moment and replaying the moment out for himself. A few dozen times. He wouldn’t be lying if he said that he had imagined that tongue sliding up his cock and the wet, hot heat of Gregory’s mouth besieging him. In his fantasy, Gregory sucked him off as if gag reflexes were an urban myth and he was born to be Mycroft’s personal fuck toy. 

 _Oh, for the love of God! Focus!_ Mycroft shut his eyes, stifled the groan rumbling in his throat and stood up. Lucky for him, Gregory hadn’t noticed the momentary lapse in control. The DI was still muttering under his breath with his eyes closed, hands now grasping at his hair.

Finally, Gregory opened his eyes and stared at him. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the unwavering stare. _Fight or flight, and you have chosen.._

“You know what, Mr. Holmes? I will leave your office. But I’ll take something with me”, he said. An evil grin curved up his lips. Gregory’s eyes glinted as they gave Mycroft a quick once-over.

Mycroft’s mouth fell open. _He can’t be serious. The foolish, impulsive idiot of a man._ Mycroft only needed to reach under his desk and push a button, and there would be ten armed security guards here in two seconds. And yet, as Gregory strode towards him, Mycroft’s gaze flickered to Gregory’s tongue, now caught between his right canines. The younger man’s hand twitched towards the panic button, but before he could make contact, he was pushed against the wall behind him with surprising speed. “Umph!”, Mycroft’s breath escaped his lungs as he was turned around and his arms were grasped behind his back.

“Mycroft Holmes, I’m arresting you for obstructing the course of justice and for stealing the property of Scotland Yard. You know the rest of the spiel”, Gregory growled into his ear, crowding into him. 

“I hope I don’t have to explain what an enormous mistake you’re making. You will regret this moment, Detective Inspector”, Mycroft growled. He tried to ignore the effect Gregory’s proximity was having on him. He had no strategy in place for this particular mishap. Things were escalating out of his hands rapidly. He needed a second to turn this around. All his instincts screamed at him to turn around with a swift jerk of his limbs and knee the man in his groin. And yet, Mycroft reasoned, this was Gregory, the man he had had fantasized over for months, now pressed flush to him, head to toe. Livid, snarling Gregory, who was oblivious of Mycroft’s feelings and just wanted to throw both the Holmes brothers in a lock-up and be done with them.

Gregory chuckled and kicked Mycroft’s feet further apart with his right foot. He snapped the handcuffs on Mycroft’s wrists and pressed his hand to the younger man’s spine, holding him in place. “Not what you expected, eh? This is what happens when you Holmeses think you’re above the law. If I don’t make sure you spend at least an hour in the lock-up tonight, I’m going to change my name”.

Mycroft struggled to keep up with the myriad sensations flooding his brain. He couldn’t decide whether to jerk his hips towards the wall for some relief or back towards Gregory’s thigh. Heat radiated through four layers of clothing and scorched across Mycroft’s skin, making him rattle in Gregory’s hold and want to lean back into the warmth. His shoulders shook as the DI’s hand bunched in his shirt. Mycroft leaned his forehead on the wall, closing his eyes. Gregory smelled so good that Mycroft’s vision swam. A helpless moan wrenched itself free, spilling out of his mouth before he could rein it in. He tried to turn around and snog the man, forgetting for a moment that Gregory had secured him so well there was no room to move. A second passed before Gregory gasped in shock, released Mycroft and backed away as if he’d just been scalded with boiling water.

“What the hell?”, he asked in a raspy voice, all his bravado gone. “You’re enjoying this?”. Mycroft cringed as he heard the shock in Gregory’s voice. He cursed his lack of self-control and turned around to face the man. 

**TBC.**

* * *

P.S: I have a general idea of how to continue this, but I would appreciate your thoughts. Is there anything you would like to see/add? 

I promise it’s not going to get into non-con territory (I would never do that. Blaarrghh!) These two idiots need a good shagging and conversation, that’s all. Thanks for reading, my lovelies! :)


	12. Do it. I dare you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to the office Mystrade in Chapter 11. Apologies for any errors. This happens when you start writing at 11.30 and finish at 3 AM.  
> NSFW. All of it. Completely NSFW. Teehee. Thank you for all your suggestions. I tried to follow the consensus, but Myc and Greg wouldn’t listen. So, here we stand.

Mycroft’s eyes were glued to the carpet as he turned around. _Breathe_. He was aware of the blush that had now reached his hairline, and the raging erection poorly concealed by his suit jacket. Relief flooded through his nerves as he tugged at the handcuffs still clasped around his wrists. Left unfettered, he wouldn’t know what do with his hands. 

 _How do I explain this to Gregory? How do you confess to the object of your secret fantasies why you’ve been humping their leg for the past sixty seconds?_  Was there a way out of this where he could distract Gregory from this fracas while still maintaining what was left of his own dignity? For God’s sake, he held the fate of the country in his hands, and here he was, struggling to string four words together into a simple sentence. He wrenched his eyes away from Gregory’s feet and looked at the DI.

Gregory was gaping at him, panting as if he’d run up a flight of stairs. His wide eyes surveyed Mycroft from head to toe.

The younger man pursed his lips, suddenly conscious of his appearance.  His auburn hair was disheveled, there were creases in his trousers and one of the hand-sewn buttons on his waistcoat had nearly been dragged out during their skirmish.

“Fuck”. Gregory’s fascinated inflection went straight to Mycroft’s cock. 

Gregory’s pupils were wide and his eyes were slightly unfocused. His right hand twitched when his gaze reached the telltale bulge in Mycroft’s trousers. His tongue snuck out and he bit down on it.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. How had he missed this? Gregory was not only aroused, but also  _very_  eager in indulging his curiosity. Was this a new development, or had this latent attraction always been present? Perhaps Mycroft’s obsession with that insidious tongue had blindsided him to all of Gregory’s other tells.

He grinned at the DI, who ran a hand through his hair and stumbled backwards on his feet. Gregory landed on the desk with a soft thump and moved his hips to better accommodate the growing bulge in his denims. “Christ, Mycroft”, he whispered in a thick voice. A variety of emotions flickered on his open face.  _Pupils blown wide, rapid blinking, eyes cast down toward the carpet while he mouthed a reproach to himself._   ** _Lust, surprise and guilt_**. Mycroft frowned as another one broke the surface. 

Before Mycroft could identify it, however, realization dawned on Gregory’s face and he shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, stifling it away in the confines of his mind. “Stop that”, he grunted. His knuckles shone white as his hands gripped the edge of the desk.

“Stop what, precisely? How could I do anything in this state, Detective Inspector?”. Hearing his own honeyed voice made Mycroft smile. “I can barely move without tripping, let alone do anything to you”. He took a careful step towards Gregory, who was trying unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder. “I’m not the only one enjoying this, am I, Gregory?”

Gregory didn’t answer. He seemed unable to tear his eyes away from Mycroft’s mouth. A flush crept up his neck and his tongue peeked out to wet his lips again. “You shouldn’t say things like that”. Gregory panted.

“Why? What do they do to you? Pray tell”. Mycroft murmured and stared pointedly at Greg’s erection.

Gregory’s eyes flared with anger. His pupils were so wide that his eyes appeared nearly black. He tightened his grip on the desk.

“Or perhaps you are all talk and no trousers”. Mycroft sneered. He knew he’d hit a little too close to home when Gregory’s chin snapped up and he growled.

 _One little push._  “Tell me, what precisely would you like to do to me?”, Mycroft asked.

Gregory’s shoulders shook. His eyes roved over Mycroft as his defenses dropped, one by one. This time, when his gaze reached Mycroft’s obvious arousal, it lingered. Gregory’s tongue wagged from side to side and scooped upwards. He gulped loudly and palmed the bulge in his denims. Long brown eyelashes fluttered on his cheekbones as he looked up at Mycroft through heavy lidded brown eyes.

Mycroft’s chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. He leaned low to speak in Gregory’s ear. “Do it. I dare you”. When he flicked the DI’s earlobe with his tongue, the man grabbed Mycroft and swiveled them both around.

Mycroft gasped aloud as he was deposited on the desk, amidst the pile of paperwork he’d been inspecting just ten minutes ago. Gregory kicked apart his legs and fell atop him. They both groaned as their mouths crashed together and Greg’s hand gripped Mycroft’s hair. His other hand ran down Mycroft’s back to fondle the younger man’s arse.

Mycroft leaned up into the DI’s grasp while Greg left bruising, open mouthed kisses on his lips. He tried to capture Greg’s tongue between his teeth, dizzy with want.

Their tongues met, probing and altercating; each fought to prevail over the other. But with a well-timed roll of his hips, Greg won that battle. He fed Mycroft his tongue as he grinded their clothed erections together, planting a knee next to Mycroft and thrusting down onto him. Greg tasted of tobacco and store-brand coffee. His stubble chafed against Mycroft’s jaw, leaving angry red trails in his wake. His hands were everywhere; sneaking down the back of Mycroft’s trousers, and unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt.

Mycroft wrapped his left leg around the DI’s hips and moaned into Greg’s mouth, moving in rhythm, chasing the friction he’d been denied for so long.  _Dear God, yes!_  His brain short-circuited as the pressure began to build and peak. “Fuck”, he cursed into Greg’s mouth and wrenched his mouth free. He was not going to come in his pants like a schoolboy. He needed to free his hands to take care of this situation. “Too close, too much”, he gasped out. “I can’t, not like this”.

Gregory frowned at him for a second before running a soothing hand down Mycroft’s chest. “What’s the matter, Mr. Holmes?”, he asked, as his hand descended down Mycroft’s stomach and gripped his cock through his trousers. “Can’t handle a bit of pressure?”.

Mycroft bit his lower lip and eased up into Greg’s grip.

“Here, bite down on this, gorgeous”, Greg said and offered him a handkerchief. He dug Mycroft’s shirt out of his trousers and made short work of the younger man’s trousers and pants.

Mycroft’s teeth dug into his gag. He tried to slow his breathing down from the overwhelming frenzy it had morphed into. Greg’s fingers on him felt divine. He parted his legs further to give the DI access, groaning as Greg gave him a quick squeeze. He bucked and thrust into Greg’s hand, mumbling nonsense and keening as the DI’s thumb swiped over the head and spread precum all over his cock.

Gregory leaned into Mycroft’s ear as he stroked him lazily. “Is this what you want, Mr. Holmes? For me to me to tie you up and do what I want with you? Because I can gladly turn a blind eye to some of Sherlock’s misdeeds if I can bend you over and fuck you till you can’t remember your own name”.

Mycroft mewled and bit down harder on the balled-up handkerchief.  _Jesus fucking Christ. The mouth on this man. The sheer gall_. A shudder ripped through his body, starting at the base of his spine and radiating up to his extremities. He thrashed and twisted in Gregory’s grip and spat the kerchief out. “Please”, he whispered hoarsely, staring at Greg’s mouth. “Please, your mouth, Greg”, he beseeched Greg. “Your tongue! I want your tongue on me, please”. He struggled against his restraints and tried to move up the desk so Greg wouldn’t have to kneel on the floor, but Greg held him down.

“Stay”, he ordered and stuffed the kerchief back in Mycroft’s mouth. He left a trail of kisses on Mycroft’s chest and stomach before kneeling between the younger man’s legs.

Mycroft shivered as Greg’s hands stroked his thighs. Greg licked a stripe up his cock from the root to the head, slow and deliberate, repeating the movement until Mycroft’s frantic breaths had settled into a steadier pattern. “The number of times I’ve wanted to do this, Mycroft”, Greg whispered and kissed the side of his shaft. Mycroft looked down, eyes widening in surprise.

“You should have just asked”. Greg’s eyes met his as his tongue lapped at the head, pausing to tease the frenulum. He stroked Mycroft a tad faster and planted butterfly kisses along the slit.

Mycroft’s back arched up and he snarled. He wished his hands were free so he could bury them into the DI’s hair and mark Gregory’s shoulders with his fingernails. Greg’s hands were incredible, but his tongue deserved its own strata of superlatives. Mycroft howled into his gag as Greg squeezed him and swallowed him down halfway.

The DI bobbed his head up and down, now sucking at Mycroft’s cock with abandon. His eyes were scrunched shut in concentration and his hands snuck down to unbutton his own denims.

The sight nearly set Mycroft off on the spot. He planted his hips on the desk firmly and fought against his restraints. No wonder he screamed in frustration when Greg suddenly released him and glared at him.

“This is when you fuck my mouth, Mycroft”, he said.

Mycroft’s mind reeled.  _Everything is about sex. Except sex. Sex is about power. Ergo,_ _Mycroft Holmes did not submit._  And yet, his nails dug into the wooden desk when the head of his cock hit the back of Greg’s throat. A pinch on his left arse cheek made him jerk up into the wet heat engulfing him. Mycroft planted his elbows on the desk and thrust up into Greg’s mouth, knowing he was close.

Their surroundings reduced to a blur, the air reeked of Greg’s pharmacy-brand deodorant and all Mycroft could hear were his own muffled pleas and Greg’s moans around him. His skin broke into gooseflesh where Greg’s nails dug into his alabaster skin. Greg’s fingers were splayed on his stomach, grounding Mycroft. His focus narrowed down to the slide of Greg’s tongue on his cock, the pulsing heat in his groin and the sultry warmth of Greg’s mouth.  _This doesn’t feel like sex any more._  Greg’s hands explored his skin, he labored to find what Mycroft liked and persisted in his efforts to push Mycroft closer to the brink, bit-by-bit. As if time itself had stopped for them.

Realization swept over Mycroft at the same instant his orgasm broke. He trembled in Greg’s grasp and arched up, yearning to touch the DI. He hadn’t come like this in a long time, not through his own administrations or the convenient company he sometimes resorted to. Greg swallowed and cleaned him up until Mycroft could take no more. Pleasure wrecked Mycroft’s entire body. As he spat out his gag, the corners of his mouth quirked up. His wrists pulled at the cuffs as his fingers reached out towards Greg.  _Intimacy,_ he deduced. 

“Obviously”, said Greg. He grinned and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s hip before rifling in his pockets for the keys.

Mycroft frowned at him.  _Oh_. He’d said it aloud.

“You have intimate feelings for me”. Greg grappled with the cuffs. It took him a few tries to unlock them, with how Mycroft lay slumped over his own hands.

Mycroft’s brain was trying to reboot from its post-coital fugue. “What?”, he asked weakly and leaned up on his elbows.

Greg was still half-dressed. A button from his shirt had been ripped out. Three angry bite marks smarted under his left ear.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. He didn’t even remember biting Greg; he didn’t belong in the category of people who left marks of possession on others. His eyes trailed down to Greg’s jeans. A shiver ran up his spine at the sight.  _Wait._  “Did you just say I have-“, he asked, frowning.

“Yes, you do. As do I, for you. But you already knew that”. Greg’s voice made Mycroft’s insides melt. 

Tentative butterfly kisses pressed at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, fingers raked in Mycroft’s hair and brushed up his back until something broke inside him. He returned the kiss in full measure, every fiber of his being clamoring with assent. Greg’s skin was warm under Mycroft’s touch, demanding to be researched and scrutinized.

He grasped the DI’s arse and clawed at his pants till they were stripped down to Greg’s knees. Mycroft bit Greg’s lower lip and closed his fingers around Greg’s erection. He could barely believe the noises spilling out of his own mouth.

Greg chuckled and pulled Mycroft closer. “Not the kind of intimacy I was talking about, gorgeous”.

“Mmm”. Mycroft released Greg’s mouth, slid down the desk and kneeled on the plush carpet. “Later”.

* * *


	13. Snowstorm

Mycroft kissed the top of Greg’s head. He brushed his fingers through the silver locks and traced a fingertip down the back of his husband’s neck.

Greg shifted in his sleep and threw his leg over Mycroft’s hip, a low groan escaping his lips.

Mycroft chuckled softly. Mornings like these were rare. It was not every day that they woke up together, limbs entangled, peeking at each other with half lidded eyes, stealing soft, grazing kisses before surrendering to sleep yet again. It was an unspoken promise that neither would sneak out of bed without the other. Not that Mycroft wished to.

He turned his head towards the window, to the heavy skies. Outside, snowflakes had begun to fall. The howling wind caught them mid-descent and whipped them into a translucent flurry. He could barely see anything beyond a foot from the glass, and soon a thin sheet of powder had plastered itself to the fine metal screening.

Mycroft’s leg twitched. Inside their warm cocoon, Greg’s lips pressed against his neck. Mycroft bit his lower lip. As Greg’s fingers slid under his night shirt, Mycroft’s blood ran south. The soothing weight on his chest where Greg had deposited himself now made him restless. Mycroft’s chest shook with silent laughter as Greg began snoring again. He attempted to pry his shoulder out from under his husband, but to no avail.

Mycroft’s skin broke into gooseflesh as he smelled Greg’s hair. He moaned low in his throat. “Gregory”. Mycroft called him in a strangled whisper. His eager fingers explored Greg’s back, the flat of his palm kneading into the lower back, just how Greg liked it.

“Don’t wanna get out of bed”, Greg mumbled and slithered to settle on top of Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg’s temple. His nails dug into Greg’s sides and he rocked his hips upwards in a strategic move that shook Greg out of his slumber. The chocolate brown eyes widened before they crinkled around the edges. Mycroft’s words nearly evaporated into thin air, so radiant was Greg’s smile. He paused to commit every minute detail to memory, from how Greg’s eyelashes settled on his cheekbones to the rough glide of Greg’s stubble against his own cheek.

“Neither do I”, he murmured and dipped his fingers under the waistband of Greg’s shorts. “Ever”.


	14. I don't care about other people. I only care about you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this wonderful piece of art by the lovely @ohfuckmystrade who has ruined me yet again with her talent: http://ohfuckmystrade.tumblr.com/post/169431478389/i-dont-care-about-people-i-only-care-about

“Look at you”, the gravelly voice reverberated through the candle-lit room and blazed up Mycroft’s spine. Greg hurried to divest himself of his own layers, unwilling to take his eyes off Mycroft. “I knew you’d have freckles”.

The sounds of traffic from the street failed to reach Mycroft, he’d long forgotten about his phone, even the part of his brain finding criticism with himself had fallen silent. All his senses focused on the marvel unfolding in front of him. With every inch of glowing skin that Greg revealed, the swirling eddy of lust in Mycroft’s mind picked up more speed. 

Mycroft groaned as his gaze proceeded south from Greg’s collarbones to the trail of dark hair over the broad muscular torso and the curve of that spectacular arse. “Fuck”, he cursed and curled his fingers around his own erection. Not without difficulty, he tore his eyes away from Greg’s ( _delightfully thick_ ) cock and met the DI’s gaze, his nerves vibrating with anticipation. 

Greg’s eyes were nearly black. The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Christ, you’re lovely”. He leaned over Mycroft, and brushed the backs of his fingers up Myc’s legs, making the younger man whimper. “You’re so smooth, love. Fucking glorious”. Rough, callused fingers carded up through Myc’s chest hair and skimmed down Myc’s sides. 

A shudder ran through Myc as Greg kissed the inside of a knee and trailed kisses down Myc’s inner thigh. “I wonder what people would think if they saw you like this”, Greg mused aloud, but the next moment, a growl fell from the DI’s lips, the mere thought enough to have set a possessive streak alight. Greg clutched Myc’s hips and pulled them roughly toward himself, his eager tongue licking the sensitive underside of Myc’s cock. On hearing Myc’s half-bitten howl, Greg wrapped his lips around the head and sucked, his head bobbing as he gathered Myc deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. 

“Come here, come here”. Myc grabbed Greg’s hair and pulled the DI up, his tongue invading Greg’s mouth. They both groaned and clutched at each other, rutting like teenagers. Greg stroked his mouth up Myc’s neck and bit into the skin below his collarbone. 

It took a few seconds for Myc to summon up the resistance.  _Gods above, not yet._  He threw a leg around Greg’s waist and dragged Greg’s hand down until the DI’s fingers pressed  _exactly_  where he needed. “I don’t care about other people”, he declared into Greg’s ear, sinking his teeth into the delicious, tanned neck and grinding up against Greg’s hip. “I only care about you”.


	15. A long, hard day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a tough week at work and ends up missing their anniversary. Married Mystrade with Hurt/Comfort.

Wisps of steam rose from the bathtub, where foamy hot water awaited him. There were candles and rose petals on nearly every flat marble surface. Soulful piano music drifted towards them from Myc’s phone. Greg could swear he smelled lavender. He chuckled and turned to his husband. “Where did you even get rose petals at this hour?”.

Mycroft’s eyes sparkled. “An unfortunate bouquet from the gargantuan collection we received yesterday".

Greg smiled. He ran his hands up Mycroft’s back and pressed kisses to his husband’s jaw. “I’m sorry I missed our anniversary, love”. He pulled Myc closer and buried his face into his husband’s chest.

The last forty-eight hours had been excruciating. What had begun as a domestic in Lambeth had spiraled into a kidnapping and attempted murder. It had taken Greg’s entire team two days and no sleep to put their suspect behind bars. Watching a family break apart with such violence was distressing for his team, but it alarmed Greg more than the rest. Regret coursed through him, so sharp he could taste it. He didn’t need to imagine what would happen if he let his long hours and exhausting schedule continue. His divorce with the ex had taught him enough about what long absences did to a marriage.

Mycroft’s hands kneaded into his husband’s lower back, drawing a hum of approval from Greg. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory”. His sharp tone notwithstanding, his grip tightened around Greg. He pressed his lips to Greg’s temple. “You are an outstanding police officer and a loving, generous and compassionate man. Our marriage is everything I have ever hoped for and more. Think of that, the next time you entertain this ridiculous fantasy of being an apathetic husband”.

Greg frowned. “Myc, I..”

“No”. Mycroft held Greg’s chin between his fingers and finagled Greg out of his hiding place. His blue eyes bored into Greg’s, the tiny frown line between his eyebrows deepening as he drew a breath. “I have never been more happy in my life than I was in this past year. You have had a terrible week, but this is not an indicator of what our marriage is going to be. I refuse to let you wallow in self-pity any more.  _Do you understand?_ ”.

Myc’s voice echoed off the walls of the bathroom. Its stark contrast with the soft, romantic sonnet playing in the background made Greg’s mouth twitch. He beamed at Mycroft, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Not even a little bit?”, he asked and pouted.

Mycroft’s glare softened and he raised an eyebrow. “I would roll my eyes, but the ophthalmologist advised me to not do that any more”. He gave a long-suffering sigh instead and shook his head.

Greg brushed Myc’s jaw with the back of his fingers and stroked his mouth across Myc’s. “I love you”. He repeated it four more times between kisses, just to be safe. “Happy anniversary”.

Myc kissed Greg’s forehead and disentangled their arms. “Happy anniversary, you ruffian. Now, step out of this travesty you call a suit so we can get rid of this stench”.

“Hey! I happen to like Axe body spray!”. Greg unbuttoned his own shirt as Myc pretended to retch.

“Perhaps I should use bleach instead of bath salts, Gregory. And then burn all your clothes”.

“Perhaps I should drag you into that bath with me, posh boy. And then make sweet, slow love to you after”.


	16. Flu

# Flu

 _A dialog only ficlet where Greg tries a home remedy on Mycroft, who’s suffering from the flu. I tried to keep it short, but these two wouldn’t let me. Hurt/Comfort and Fluff._

“Gregory, I have already texted Anthea. She should have been here 10 minutes ago with my prescription. I don’t need a home remedy, so could you please put an end to the cacophony?”.

“Let me try something, My. I promise it’ll help. C'mere, sit at the counter. I’ll try to be as stealthy as a ninja. Anything for my darling, flu-infested husband”.

“Was _that_ part of your attempt to be stealthy?”.

“Shit. Sorry about that, I misjudged the pan’s center of gravity. And forgot that there was another copper pot in it”.

“Good lord”.

“Stop sighing, My. You’re not inhaling enough air as it is”.

“Gregory. My eyes hurt”.

“Here, use this hot compress, it’ll help”.

“Okay”.

“Oops”.

“Did you just-?”.

“No, the antique mixing bowl is fine! It was just a stray lid. But I’d still keep my eyes closed if I were you”.

“Why?”.

“Because I’m going to use my mortar and pestle and I don’t want tiny bits of spices to get into your lovely eyes”.

“May I ask-”.

“It’s a love potion”.

“Was declaring my love for you in front of sixty three people not sufficient?”.

“There’s always room for improvement”.

“Gregory”.

“Fine. It’s a truth serum”.

“Those exist, you know”.

“Wait, what?”.

“Gregoryyy”.

“Aww, don’t pout, My. Come here, let me kiss your nose while this thing boils”.

“What, precisely, is boiling?”.

“The magic elixir!”.

“Do I smell cardamom?”.

_“Maybe”._

“Gregory, why can’t you just tell me what-”.

“Because if I tell you, you won’t drink it!”.

“Oh dear. This is why we have tasters at work”.

“Yes, I could change the fate of the free world with a tiny shake of my hand. Fear me”.

“You can't be trying to kill me, Gregory”.

“How can you be so sure?”.

“My birthday is approaching, and we haven’t discussed what you’re going to give me”.

“Don’t make me laugh, I’ll spill this everywhere”.

“I can still smell cardamom”.

“Hush. Here, give me the compress and sip this”.

“Is it at the right temperature yet? Wasn’t it boiling a minute ago?”.

“You’re right. I think we should give it a couple of minutes to cool down. Whatever shall we do with all this extra time?”.

“ _Mmpf!_ Are you sure you want to kiss me when I’m sick?”.

“Darlin’, it’ll take more than inflamed sinus membranes and blotchy eyes to drive me away from you”.

“Just out of curiosity, what _will_ it take?”.

“Listening to Taylor Swift”.

“I don’t know who that is”.

“And this is why I love you”.

“Mmmm.. why are we stopping?”.

“Because it’s finally at optimum temperature! Go on, try it!”.

“It’s.. It’s tea, Gregory”.

“It’s more than just tea!”.

“It’s a labor of love, Gregory”.

“It’s Chai, Mycroft. I learned how to make it from a friend at Uni. You boil tea leaves with cloves, cardamom, peppercorns, ginger root, cassia and nutmeg. Then, once the brew has simmered for the right amount of time, you add milk and honey”.

“So this is what Anthea got instead of my prescription”.

 _“Along with_ your prescription. How do you feel?”.

“I must admit, I enjoy the flavors. The spices are helping me breathe better, too. You were right to not tell me what it was beforehand”.

“And here you were thinking I was about to poison you”.

“Can you blame me, Gregory?”.

“Nah. I haven’t forgotten the Great Kale Incident of 2018”.

“The mere memory is enough to make me shudder”.

“I’ll give you something to shudder about”.

“Will you, now?”.

“Mmm-hmm”.


	17. Kit Kats

At last, he knew what he had to do. Greg set down his glass and weaved through the crowd to reach Myc and Chloe.

After a brusque tap on her shoulder, a quick bidding war (His niece's collection of KitKats wasn't as extensive as Greg's, after all), Mycroft's stern glare and some hastily revised terms, victory was his. Well, victory minus thirteen KitKats.

"Gregory!". Myc's voice bubbled with surprise and amusement. "Surely there was no need for such drastic measures!".

Greg pressed his lips to Myc's cheek and entwined their fingers. "In my defense, you asked me how much I love you".

Myc's eyes lit up. "It was a rhetorical question, you rogue". And yet, he untangled their fingers and looped his arms around the DI's waist.

"You and I both know you don't ask rhetorical questions, pookie".

"I see".

"What?".

"Well, I am deeply honored to find that I'm worth eighty-six point six six percent of your chocolate wafer stash".

"Hey, you two have been dancing for more than half an hour! I got snacky!".

"Mm-hmm".

"Fine, I'll throw in some Lindts. You know, you're being really disrespectful of my sacrifice, Myc!".

"Actually, I have other plans for the Lindt truffles. They are not to be used in your nefarious deals any more, Gregory".

"Other plans, you say?".

"Quite. I've heard that Lindts are _very smearable_ ".

"Aww, you're so cute when you make up words".

"No, that actually _is_ -".

"Stop being adorable and kiss me!".


End file.
